nods to the back room and tells me… that’s where they found the boy, his brains

all over the walls like someone… had thrown a bowl of oatmeal, cold gun

on the floor. Been there for weeks.… Neighbors thought rats had died

in the walls, the smell was so bad… when it finally slipped up the winter pipes

and nestled into the furniture.… Bill tells me I won’t hear about it

from the neighbors, at least the ones… who might have heard the muffled shot

if they knew what to listen for. Doesn’t mean… it didn’t happen. I ask him

for the boy’s name, but he can’t remember.… Doesn’t mean he didn’t die. There’s

a guitar in a corner chair, neck as broken… as a wrung chicken. I won’t let

these things slip. Even if I ever forget,… doesn’t mean I didn’t know them.

***

Samuel T. Franklin is mostly from Indiana, by way of Clayton, Terre Haute, and Bloomington. The author of a book of poems titled The God of Happiness, his writing has appeared or is forthcoming in The Indianapolis Review, Fickle Muses, M Review, and others. He can often be found building semi-useful things out of wood scraps and losing staring contests with his cats. He can be reached at https://samueltfranklin.wordpress.com.